


Keeping Count

by Trovia



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Dee would think of fumbling in the dark with Billy shyly, of trying out poses she knows will get Lee off and feeling ridiculous while doing so. She'd think of them, except if there ever was a time to not think of Billy Keikeya, and not think of Leland Adama, it's now.</i> On her way to see Lee in "Sometimes A Great Notion," Dee runs into Noel Allison, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Count

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lls_mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lls_mutant/gifts).



“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

“What?”

Billy Keikeya twists around to her, swift eyes scanning her from bottom to top with alarm. They're in his quarters on Colonial One, where she's been sitting on the bed while he's been observing Galactica, through his window. Now, Galactica - her home but his problem - is gone from his mind. His eyes widen in fear.

“Dee, is there anything... I know it's hard for all of us right now but is there anything...”

“I’m fine,” she assures him. He's crossed the tiny room to kneel in front of her, and she puts her hand on his when it reaches for her thigh. “Really, I'm fine. I was just wondering...”

“Are you really sure there isn’t anything...”

“Billy, I'm fine.”

This conversation never, in actuality, took place.

* * *

There's an air of decay to these quarters. The pilot couple who lived here died just three days ago, both Washout and Stinger blown into pieces on the same patrol, strange twist of fate. Most of their belongings have already been cleaned out, sold to the highest bidder, and their daughters have taken their stuff along to foster care. Dee strokes along the nightstand's edge with a finger. There’s a forgotten framed photograph showing a beach, possibly on Scorpia. Dust has started settling.

“Someone's going to claim the room right away,” Allison remarks. “Twister and Hex want it, rumor mill says. They want to adopt.” He grimaces, like the notion is disgusting to him. “Gods know why.” Already he is putting off his jacket, throwing it onto a chair. He’s moving carelessly, as if at home.

“If it wasn't for Earth, people would be lining up for this place.”

But there aren’t. Dee remembers radiated mud under her finger tips, biting smell of decomposing algae in the air. She envies Washout and Stinger for having died in time, so hard it might just make her tremble again.

“I can't believe they had real sheets,” she says, eyes on tattered crimson satin.

“I can't believe nobody stole them yet,” Allison pulls his shirt out of his pants, pausing to look her a question. “We’re here to frak, right?”

Third item on the list of things to look at, Noel Allison. He's half a stranger, yet familiar - _Pegasus_ the sight of him is screaming at her, _Pegasus Pegasus home._ It was an awful time back then and yet it was _her ship_ , blown into bits by a commander who'd thought it secondary to Galactica.

Not unlike Washout and Stinger’s death had become secondary when they found Earth – at least for Admiral Adama, who’s never scheduled a service. The thought makes Dee’s face burn in shame at the heresy.

Allison's arrogance has been a defining part of him for so long that it’s been burnt into his features. He'd be rather attractive, she's always thought, if he wasn't such a pain, his face surprisingly soft once the smirk goes away, which is never. He has ridiculously healthy skin. She thinks he practices that look of condescension in the mirror.

Thank the Gods she ditched Lee to be here.

* * *

The shock of finding a whole Fleet out there alive and well hasn’t settled quite yet. And the shocks just keep coming. Noel crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking at the pilots standing around the table in the Pegasus mess. He’s a picture of discomfort.

The handful of other pilots are staring at the charts, charts a forthcoming Galactican lieutenant has copied for them, happy to be able to do something in return. They show star constellations and, most importantly, vectors.

“It’s true,” Washout says, sense of wonder in her voice. “I can’t frakking believe it. They know a way to frakking Earth.”

“They know a _direction_ , you mean,” Showboat says sharply, but Washout just shrugs.

“Still better than dying.”

Cain hasn’t made that bit of news official yet, though there’s no doubt that it will make its way through Pegasus with the speed of a Scorpian fire.

The group of pilots starts talking excitedly again. A way to Earth – a way to go, any way to go – will change everything for them, for Pegasus, more so than taking command of a Fleet. Noel’s lips thin.

He’s not surprised when Stinger dissolves from the group, stepping over to him, being a good CAG as always and a good friend.

“Not that I’d ever have seen this one coming,” Stinger remarks casually. “But if I would have, I’d have expected you to look happier about it.”

Noel grimaces, shaking his head. “There’s no such thing as Earth, Cole.”

There can’t be. It can’t be possible.

“I don’t know. Dr. Baltar seems sharp. Hoshi says it’s sound.”

His whole face feels tight.

“It’s a myth. Frakking place of honey from the frakking scrolls? It can’t be true.”

He can’t afford for it to be true.

Noel’s not the biggest fan of the Admiral - she’s thrown him in the brig to often for that. But she is right about one thing. You have to try and never hope. If you start with it once, you cannot stop, and when you lose it, you just crumble and die.

* * *

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

Lee hardens his face. It’s nothing he’s particularly good at – he's not very good at hiding his emotions, too used to the privilege of letting them matter. Lying on the bed, head resting on her arm, Dee observes him sitting at the desk and trying to close off. He’s looking at his report instead of her.

“What's making you ask that question?” Too casual to work on anybody but his father.

“Is that a yes?”

 _It's none of your godsdamn business._ The answer is written all over his face, illuminated by the stark orange desk light. That one, even Adama would get.

“If this is about Falcon...”

“It's not about Falcon.”

“Because Cottle isn't even sure it was suicide...”

“It isn't about Falcon, Lee.”

“Good.”

He makes it sound like that ends the conversation, which wasn't about Falcon. Though it inexplicably seems to have been about Lee, and Dee groans with unreleased tension, burying her face in the pillow.

This conversation never happened, either.

* * *

“You know it as well as I do,” Narcho pants, dancing around the punching bag and attacking it with yet another kick. “They’ve done everything to get rid of Cain, they just went on and on until something killed her. They’d do anything to get rid of us if they could just afford it. Almost pissed themselves when Cain took their Cylon.” Kick. “They hate that they need us.”

Again he kicks the bag, as hard as he can. Stinger makes a muffled sound when it’s pressed against his stomach.

“Who cares that they hate it as long as they need us?”

“Because they’re gonna use us up as frakking cannon fodder, that’s why.”

Noel feels like going on, kicking and fighting as hard as he can, except he can’t anymore. He’s panting too hard, his side aching from the workout that went on too long, swaying when his knees feel to weak to stand after that last angry kick.

“They’ve frakking benched us,” he manages. “I’ve worked for _years_ to make Captain. I’d have made CAG in no time. Now I won’t. Except if I prove I’m Admiral Adama’s frakking niece.”

Guys like Noel had stood no chance of a good life outside the military before the Fall - too little money in the family, no interest in book smarts, too much of a temper. He’d never have fit anywhere else. He has that in common with Kara Thrace.

What he doesn’t have in common with Kara Thrace though is this: If _he_ ’d get piss drunk and end up in the brig after starting a fight with another officer, he wouldn’t be back on duty next shift. He sure as hell wouldn’t still be the CAG’s right hand man.

“Strange time to worry about your career,” Washout says. She’s walked over from the bench, throwing a towel at him without sympathy. Narcho peels it off his face. “What with the death of almost all of humankind, I’d think your priorities would have changed.”

“Can’t all play house and have kids,” Noel growls. Washout has started showing, which is why she isn’t working out along with them. He sometimes can’t help but look at her belly with a sense of betrayal. Stinger will never make CAG again, they all know that, and Noel hates that the two of them don’t care.

“Can’t all frak everything that moves,” Washout says, unconcerned.

Stinger gives her a warning look. Both she and Noel ignore him.

Drying off with the towel, Noel waits for his breath to calm down so he can have a second go.

He doesn’t want all of his life to be a waste, that’s all.

* * *

Dee has always liked the steely, muscular type, and the masculinity Narcho is lacking in built he's making up in attitude. There's a gleam in his eyes and that smirk on his face that just won't go away, but she couldn't care less about that now. Gripping the pillow above her head, she's arching her hips until she’s off the bed, offering herself to his mouth. He's between her legs, and she's pushing, frakking his tongue, moving without thought, _unable_ to still think. She’s never felt so free.

The last hour has been a cacaphony of skin on skin, and heat, and feelings she's never felt except when touching herself.

Allison is eating her out for no other reason than because it gets him off, that much is clear. It's in the way he moves, the way he was working her breasts with his fingers and lips just before – searching not for her pleasure, but for his own.

“More,” she manages, pushing harder, and it's not a plea, it's an order: This is what I like, do it now. “Harder. You have to... suck on it... _oh_...”

It's amazing the things you dare say if you stop caring.

Allison moans against her, complying, the vibration making her whimper. She hits the pillow in an automatic attempt to stay silent, uncoordinated.

She'd think of fumbling in the dark with Billy shyly, of trying out poses she knows will get Lee off and feeling ridiculous while doing so. She'd think of them, except if there ever was a time to not think of Billy Keikeya, and not think of Leland Adama, it's now.

This is just porn.

“Yes,” she pants. “Just like that. Go on doing that. Gods, Narcho, go on doing _that_.”

* * *

Their new Commander still spends more time with the pilots than in the CIC. He’s already come down twice today, talking to the CAG – Showboat is standing with her arms crossed, face unmoving. Everybody knows she won’t have lots to say from now on. She’s supposed to listen to the baby girl they made CAG on Galactica, no matter she’s been in the service for ten years.

Stinger has been demoted again.

It’s grating, and Noel schools his face when Commander Adama walks over to him. Smear of white paint on his cheek, he is dedicating time and effort to drawing dashes on the hull, five dashes for five hits. Five dead Raiders, five times survived.

He pulls himself up, brush in hand behind his back. “Sir.”

Lee Adama scans the viper. Noel takes good care of her – all the burn marks have just made her more pretty, giving her character. But Adama doesn’t see the achievements, not even when looking at the hits.

“You’re still doing that,” he says, a trace of doubt in his voice. “Keeping count.”

“Yessir.”

A line of thought appears on Lee Adama’s forehead. “I don’t like it.”

“Sir.” _Frak you, too._

Looking past Adama, Noel can see that the other one has entered the deck – Dualla, XO in name, wife in spirit. She at least looks like she belongs in the CIC, even more so when she looks out of place on the hangar deck right now. Like she knows what she’s doing up there. She’s looking around in search of someone, probably the husband.

“Why are you still doing it?”

“It’s the Pegasus way, Sir,” Narcho says and adds for good measures, “Good for morale.”

Lt. Dualla has spotted Chief Laird, walking towards him briskly. Her eyes have never as much as paused at them.

“It’s not my way,” Adama says and turns to leave. Then, over his shoulder, “Stop doing it.”

Noel is gritting his teeth. The Galactica clan has invaded their ship, bringing along their petty schoolyard fights and their ridiculous interest in gossip and all their family connections, the ones that keep meaning more than they should.

His eyes drift towards Dualla, rapidly talking tech at the Chief. She at least is competent, no matter she didn’t get the job because of that. Her voice appears in his dreams sometimes when his mind works through old battles, like Louis Hoshi’s used to do before her - calling them home.

* * *

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

She's too lazy to move, lying in a sea of crimson satin sheets, so she only turns her head until Noel Allison comes into view. He's naked and smoking, flicking off his cigarette into the same coffee cup that he used to dispose of the condom.

“In your viper,” she presses when he doesn't immediately answer. “Have you ever thought about just... not getting out of the way in time when they’re shooting at you?”

Allison rearranges his head on the pillow. A thoughtful line crosses his forehead when he exhales a puffy cloud of smoke, apparently considering the question from all angles.

“No,” he says. “We fight death every time we're out there. You can't become what you fight.” He smirks. “No matter _some_ people on this ship think otherwise.” He’s talking of Tigh, of course, the Cylon Tigh.

The pilot gives her a long and measured look. “Have you?”

There's so much in that look.

Dee stares at the smoke gathering under the ceiling.

“Yes,” she says. “All the time.”

* * *

They find Earth three days after Cole and Washout have died. Noel feels numb, too numb to care, and he keeps playing a morbid game: Would he sacrifice Earth to get his friends back, would he sacrifice them to get Earth?

He walks up to the bar and downs the swill Joe places in front of him without feeling it burn.

He gesticulates for a second one.

On top of the numbness, he’s pissed. He’s so pissed, he could be on fire. He’s pissed at himself, because he’s bought into Adama’s crap, he’s actually believed the old fart when he told them he’d bring them to Earth. Earth is just a pile of shit. Noel used to know that. They say Adama has been walking down the main corridor plastered.

His head starts clearing after the third.

Belatedly, Noel notices that the woman on the chair next to him would be Dualla, and she’s wearing a dress. Like it’s Colonial Day, not the frakking end of hope. He narrows his eyes at her.

“Don’t,” she says, shoulders hunched in discomfort – about what, he ain’t sure. “Whatever you want to say, don’t say it.”

“You look like you want to get laid.”

She raises her eyebrows. “And you look like you’re drunk.”

He smirks. “Working on it. I presume you’ve got the same problem.” Then he waves at Joe for another.

The Pegasus crew has crumbled away, or that’s what it feels like to Noel. Showboat is still somewhere out there, long past that short stint at command. Wally has gone to live on the Prometheus, as far as Noel knows. Hoshi’s still there, a couple of others are, none that he knows well. Washout and Cole’s kids have been shuffled off to the orphanage on the Gemenon Cruiser. Noel still can’t stand the brats; he tells himself he doesn’t care what happens to them.

There’s a desolation to the sight of Lt. Dualla, who seems to be a civvie tonight – Anastasia, he knows her first name from banter on Comms. The only one of them who’s one of them without flying, without being out there, without using a call sign. She’s back to calling them home nowadays, strangely reminding him of home when she never even worked the Comm on Pegasus.

He toasts her and, without pause, downs the third.

“Have you been down there?” she asks. She’s staring at her hand, holding a glass.

She doesn’t need to specify ‘down there.’

Noel smirks. “Not the land of honey we were promised, I hear.”

“Not quite.” Her voice sounds dead. A moment of silence, then, “I miss Pegasus.”

Noel swallows down a lump in his throat. “No kidding.”

They drink in silence. Noel doesn’t know Dualla that well – has never had a private conversation with her before, as far as he remembers. But he’s always thought her competent - _steady_ -, and he’ll give her credit for missing their ship. She could as well have gone back to the Galactica clan, like her no-use ex-husband has done, the one who stopped being a pilot the moment it stopped being shiny.

Bonding over desperation. Why the frak not?

Dualla is glancing at the door. Noel follows her gaze. Just figures that the man himself has entered the bar. Lee Adama – not Major, not Pegasus Commander now – is scanning the crowd, looking for someone. He’s dressed like he’s out on a date.

Noel looks Dualla over, all pretty make-up and long legs.

Dualla stares at Adama for a moment, unmoving.

“Want to get out of here?” she asks abruptly.

It’s obvious from her squirm that she’s thinking of an exit through the back entrance.

“Sure,” Noel says. “I know a place.”

Stinger would have killed him, but Washout would have laughed her ass off, and Gods know he needs a good laugh.

* * *

The second time around, she's on top. It's a position she used to dislike, feeling conscious of Lee's eyes on her breasts, of trying to figure out what motion would make Billy writhe under her more, forever supressing every hitch. Now, one of her hands is on Noel's shoulder, another one is on his chest, holding him firmly in place while small jerks of her hips tease tiny lightning bolts of pleasure through her stomach. She’s burning, all around his cock, and burning up.

Noel’s breath is hitched and becoming more so, getting off on playing with her nipples. It’s strange, taking what she wants while he does so as well, but pleasure has long turned her vision into bleeding, thought-killing red.

She's never known that sex could be like this before.

She's never known that it could _work_ like this. None of the books she’s read have said.

* * *

Dualla has fallen asleep. Noel is staring at her, thinking everybody looks innocent now only when they're asleep, when there's a knock on the hatch. His head snaps up. It's a quiet sound, the hatch doesn't allow for more to penetrate, so the woman in bed just shifts, fast asleep, sprawled all over the bed.

Narrowing his eyes, Noel gets out of bed. He doesn't bother dressing, but he makes sure to open the hatch only a bit, so the person on the other sight won't catch a glimpse of his companion. He's got _some_ manners.

It's Lee Adama, his fancy suit unbuttoned, looking uncertain.

 _Whenever the frak does he not_ , Noel thinks.

“Uhm,” Adama says, taking in the sight of the naked Pegasus pilot. “I'm sorry to disturb you. I was looking for Dee. We were supposed to meet earlier today, and Sharon said she saw her walking down here.”

“Yeah,” Noel says leisurely. He leans his elbow against the hatch, deciding to cherish this one. “She's here alright.”

“Right.” At least the man is smart enough to read a situation. Not that it’s hard. “I don't suppose...”

“She's kind of busy.”

She's also Pegasus, a concept neither Adama has ever begun to fathom. And she's in need of a little protection right now, that much is clear even to Noel, who doesn't know her that well, and who isn't usually that great at empathy. Most of the time it’s a bad sign when people start talking of suicide, though.

She's still his XO, more than Adama ever was his Commander. He owes her one for keeping them running.

Adama still looks uncertain. “We really were supposed to meet. Are you sure...”

“I'm frakking sure,” Noel interrupts him, harshly. “Now get the hell out.”

It takes the better part of a moment for Adama to remember that he isn't a CAG anymore. He opens his mouth, closes it. The hand he has raised to do whatever goes back to his side. Maybe he has also remembered that he isn't married anymore. Surprising he could have forgotten, Noel thinks unkindly – the fact that Starbuck has stopped screwing him should have given him a hint.

Unexpectedly, Adama's face softens. “Of course,” he says. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

 _Tell her I've been looking for her_ should have followed, and the fact that it doesn't is a statement all by itself. That's right, Dualla can frak whoever she wants to frak. Good thing the man is aware of that, because Noel might just be around a little more often from now on.

Washout and Stinger might even have approved.

Making sure Adama has really left, Noel closes the hatch as softly as he can. He stands there for a moment looking at the hatch, taking a deep breath. Then he turns back around to the only place that still feels like home, to one of the few people he'd consider part of it. He has to take them where he finds them. Family is running thin these days.

* * *

She clenches her hands into fists, dragging satin sheets along with her, stretching through the yawn. She crooks her head and stares at the ceiling, feeling herself: long limbs, loose and satisfied. So wet between her legs that she can feel it when she moves. She feels more physical than she has since she was five and learned to ride a bike, falling and bruising her knees. She’s never felt less like she was five.

Turning her head, Dee looks at Narcho. She must have fallen asleep, because she missed him getting up - woke up from some noise. He’s leaning in the hatchway, arms – nice arms – crossed in front of his chest. His eyes – all dark – are roaming her body, lapping up the sight of her as if he’s bought the rights.

“I'm not in love with you,” she says. It's true. There's so much on her mind. The little there is about him is warm like friendship, hot like sex. None of it is love.

Narcho snorts. “Thank the Gods.”

She smiles.

This is what he sees when he looks at her, she can read it in his eyes: He sees Dee. Not himself reflected in her eyes. Not a fantasy of what he'd like to see. Not her minus the parts that he’s afraid of.

It's a nice bonus to know that it turns him on, on top of it all.

Narcho doesn't pretend this is more than it can be, and that is greatest gift he could ever have given. Because this isn’t about other people. This has never been about other people, and it’s never been about their journey.

The first thing she smells when closing her eyes right now isn't the decomposing algae of Earth.


End file.
